


This Fucking School Will Destroy Us

by theappleppielifestyle



Category: The Avengers
Genre: AU, I DON'T KNOW LET'S SEE HOW EVERYTHING GOES, M/M, highschool!au, hopefully a happy ending, serial killer probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theappleppielifestyle/pseuds/theappleppielifestyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school has never been fun.</p>
<p>But with Thor missing since the weekend, Tony refusing to graduate, Steve sneaking off every lunchtime, Clint growing ‘medicine’ in his backyard, and Loki turning up to class with bruises that he won’t talk about, it’s going to get a lot more interesting.</p>
<p>Then people start ending up dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The morning hits him like an incredibly rude bucket of ice pouring itself over his head, and he seriously considers just taking a fucking day off, before he remembers the thing.

It should probably worry him how fast he gets up after that.

He gets dressed in a blur, chugs a personal record of coffee, and is out the door before his alarm clock even goes off.

He spends the drive to school checking his face in the rear-view mirror, inwardly cursing himself from being an idiot, and failing miserably at not thinking about- uh, the thing.

The thing that has nothing to do with anything, ever, and he shouldn’t be thinking about it, and they don’t even have a name for it.

It’s stupid, anyway.

Tony shouldn’t be this stressed about it- it’s _Steve_ , he can handle Steve, they’ve known each other forever, they were the ones each other had gone to for each of their first breakups, the first time they told someone ‘so hey I think I might be attracted to guys,’ they’ve literally cried on each other’s shoulders (which Tony will deny even if he’s interrogated, hand to god, and his fucking parents had just died at that point, he has an excuse, fuck you)- basically, they’re going to be friends forever, whether they like it or not.

It’s like that with everyone else, too- Natasha and Clint met at about the same time Steve and Tony did, and Thor and Loki are brothers, so.

Their parents are friends with everyone else’s parents, and hence their friendship had been sealed before they had gotten any chance at getting anyone else.

Bruce- okay, Bruce had been Tony’s lab partner in second grade, and it had all been downhill from there, mostly involving failed experiments that ended up blowing the top off the lab of their primary school, then their middle school, and finally their high school.

Probably even their college, when they get around to it.

Peter had been a surprise, though. An exchange student, freshman year, fitting into their tight-knit group like he had always been there- unexpected, but not unwanted, and he’s as close with all of them as any of the others are.

Anyway, the _thing_.

The thing that they apparently do now, and Tony still doesn’t really know how it had started, he’s just glad it has.

He turns the key in the lock, switching off the ignition, shrugging off his jacket as he gets out of the car.

Of course, this sort of screw with his whole ‘being in love with him’ thing, but whatever, he’ll take what he can get.

-

“Hey, has anyone seen Thor today?”

Tony glances up from his tablet. “Hmm? Nah, I saw him on Saturday.” He crams half a bagel into his mouth, grinning at Natasha’ disgusted look as he chews loudly. “Why, is he not calling back?”

Natasha flicks her phone open. “Nope.”

Clint leans on the locker next to hers. “Dude. That’s weird. Thor always calls back. He once called me back at midnight ‘to make sure I was not in fear for him.’”

Tony nods. “Yeah, sounds like Thor. He’s probably sick, or something. Where’s Loki?”

Natasha shrugs. “Haven’t seen him.”

Tony shifts his jaw from side to side. That’s… getting disturbingly normal, actually. “Uh-huh. I have his maths class in second period, I’ll talk to him.”

“If he shows up,” Clint says, raising one eyebrow at him.

Tony starts to say something- it was going to be hilarious, witty and cunning- when Steve walks around the corner in semi-tight jeans and Tony’s brain sort of dribbles out his ears.

Okay, now it’s getting dangerous. He could walk into a wall one day. He’s pretty sure he _has_ walked into a wall a few times because Steve had been wearing something revealing, or had stretched at the wrong time, or had even fucking bit his lip or something else that he’s seen Steve do a million times that _really_ shouldn’t turn Tony on but really, really does.

Seriously. He could really fuck something up. Competing companies could use this to their advantage. He could lose his inheritance.

“Hey, Steve,” Clint says, giving Tony a weird look as he pats Steve on the back. “You know how you’re awesome and-”

“I’m not letting you copy my English exam.”

Clint withdraws his hand from around Steve’s shoulders. “You are a horrible person and I hate you.”

“I’m sure you do.” Steve shoots Tony an amused look as he spins his locker dial, and Tony tries to rearrange his face to make something that vaguely looks like he’s not being utterly consumed by the urge to leap on Steve and kiss him senseless.

Steve opens his locker, shuffling through it for his folder before stopping and frowning.

Tony snaps into action. “If that’s a stink-bomb, that was totally Clint.”

Clint starts to say, “Well, fuck you, too,” but Steve cuts him off.

“No, it’s- uh, a note?” Steve glances at Tony, who shrugs.

Steve reaches into his locker and comes out with a folded piece of paper- it looks like it’s been ripped out of a notebook.

He unfolds it and blinks at it. “Um.”

Clint cranes his neck. “Dude.”

“What?” Tony starts forwards, but Steve turns it around so he can see it.

Natasha’s eyebrows raise. “Ashes, ashes, the first falls down,” she reads, and leans backwards on her high-heels.

Tony clicks his tongue. “Well, that’s not as creepy as fuck at all.”

“I didn’t do it,” Clint says, raising his hand. “Just putting that out there.”

“It’s probably just a prank,” Steve says, crumpling the paper and lobbing it into the bin- he’s never littered in all the years that Tony’s known him, and for some reason that fact makes Tony feel all warm and fuzzy inside for no fucking reason.

So no, the note doesn’t worry him. It’s a weird trick played by a freshman trying to look cool in front of their friends by putting a misquoted nursery-rhyme into a Junior’s locker.

No big deal.

Afterwards- after the screaming, after slamming his fist at the door, after running so hard he feels like his organs are going to come loose and bang around his bones, he thinks back to that moment, how it should have gone differently, how he should have paid more attention, and how he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Steve’s mouth.

-

When Tony’s phone goes off at _three in the fucking morning_ , he expects his dad to be on the other end.

Then, a trigger goes off in his brain: _oh, yeah, he’s dead, oops_ , as he reaches for his phone, his hand blindly fumbling over his bedside table.

His hand hits something hard- motherfucker, why does he _keep_ that piece of shit lamp, he doesn’t even use it- and then something else that skitters across the desk and to the floor.

Tony groans, flopping sideways, the urge to just roll over and push his head under his pillow growing by the second, before his eyes focus on the screen:

_I-DO-WHAT-I-WANT CALLING_.

Tony frowns, his hand missing the phone twice before closing around it. “Loki, if you’re not dead and-slash-or dying, I swear to god-”

“It’s me,” Peter says, his voice high and panicked and _too loud_ for three a.m, and Tony manages not to wince away from the phone. “I’m using Loki’s phone, he’s- Jesus fucking Christ, Tony, _he just_ _crawled up to my fucking room_.”

Tony blinks, suddenly feeling more awake. “He- what? Peter, your room is on the second flo-”

“He climbed up the pipe,” Peter says, his voice escalating. “He- fuck, Tony, there’s blood everywhere, it looks really bad.”

Tony sits up, adrenaline swooping through his body and lingering at his feet. “What happened?”

“I don’t know, he’s- he just keep saying he’ll sleep it off, but there’s a lot of blood, Tony, fucking hell-”

“Where’s he bleeding from?”

Peter stops, and Tony hears a slight rustling sound, like paper being pushed off of a desk. “I- don’t know, there’s just a lot of it.”

Tony swallows, trying not to imagine how Loki’s blood is probably bitter in his mouth- “He can’t be that badly hurt if he climbed up the pipe, it’s a long fucking climb.”

He hears Peter’s throat click on the other end, hears his shaky exhale. “I didn’t think of that, he-”

“Nosebleed,” Tony hears Loki slur, and then Peter saying his name, and Loki mumbling something like ‘ _m sorry about the sheets, I’ll clean them later_ -

Tony presses the phone harder into his ear, like that will help. “Loki, man, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he hears Loki’s reply a few seconds later. “I’m fine, I just- some guys jumped me, Peter’s house was the closest-”

Peter squeaks, “So you climbed up to my room instead of knocking on the door?”

“Your parents are intimidating,” Tony hears Loki snap, and then his sharp intake of breath.

Peter says, “Loki, are-” before Loki cuts him off.

“I am _fine_ , okay? Just- just shut up, this wasn’t worth you calling anyone, Peter.”

Tony hears Peter’s irritated, “Would you let someone take care of you for _one second_ -” before Toy hears a scuffle on the other end of the phone, and Peter yell-whispering Loki to ‘lie the fuck down, all of your blood will fall out of your nose and you’ll bleed out, do you want that on your gravestone, you fucking moron,’ before the call cuts out.

Tony blinks at the phone.

Well, fuck.

Loki’s obviously worse than he says he is, because Peter had had to be pretty freaked out to start cussing like that, he was almost Steve-worthy of not cussing unless someone had a foot off or something-

Steve. Steve would be good here, he’d drag Loki’s ass to the hospital to get him checked out, and Loki might even listen.

He balances the phone on his fingers, considering.

They’d all come around if Tony asked, if Peter asked, if Loki asked, even if they think they wouldn’t- Natasha would be over there in less than ten minutes, with frizzy bed-hair and a glare that could fell an elephant, much less a cop that had pulled her over for speeding thirty seconds ago, same with Bruce, and Steve, and Thor.

Clint would bitch about it for the next _year_ , but he’d come without a second thought.

Hell, Tony’s pretty sure they’d all jump on a fucking grenade for each other at this point, or at least he would.

His phone goes dark, sucking the rest of the light from his room except for the blinking clock.

Tony sits there in the dark, his phone cooling in his hands, rubbing the screen against his knee and trying not to think about how far he’d go for all of them.

-

When he jerks awake for the second time that night, he’s half sure it’s a dream before he looks over and his screen is lightning up again, mother _fucker_ -

He snaps it open. “ _What_?”

“Has Thor contacted anyone since you saw him on Saturday?”

Tony tries to assemble his thoughts into mid-coherency. “Steve, what- no, we all saw him on Saturday and he hasn’t called back since then, I told you.”

“Shit,” Steve says in a hurried exhale, and Tony sits up, because first Peter swearing and now Steve, which equals apocalyptic kind of bad.

“What’s going on? Is Loki okay?”

“I- Loki? Oh, god, what happened to Loki?” Steve’s voice raises a few octaves, and Tony can feel adrenaline pooling in his feet again, because what the _fuck_ -

“Jesus, he’s fine! He showed up at Peter’s house all bloody, but he’ll be fine, he’d tell us if he got into something- what’s happening with Thor?”

He yanks the clock into place- 5:33 a.m.

“We don’t know,” Steve says. “We don’t-” he swallows, making a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, and Tony wants to fold his hands around the back of his head, kiss him until its better again, and that’s a _stupid_ fucking thought and he shouldn’t be thinking it.

“He’s fine, as far as we know,” Steve says. “He’s just- missing.”

Tony bolts up, grabs for his keys, tries to remember where the fuck his pants are. “Missing? What the fuck do you mean by _missing_ , he’s probably just out with the others again-”

“They’re all here,” Steve interrupts. “Except- except for Sif. That’s why we’re worried. They- the police say its foul play.”

Tony knows what that means, knows it from crime shows and police reports, but it doesn’t actually hit him until Steve says it:

“She’s dead.”


	2. Chapter 2

No-one’s seen Thor since Saturday.

The last person to see him had apparently been Loki, who had passed him in the hall on the way to bed.

Loki says that nothing seemed out of the ordinary- Thor had been tired, and had nodded at him as he had passed, and everything was too fucking _normal_ , and now they’re driving to the city morgue and Thor may or may not be dead in a ditch somewhere.

Or, y’know. He could be the murderer.

-

Loki’s her cousin, so he’s the one to ‘officially’ identify the body.

His parents offer, but he insists- he comes out thirty seconds later with a pinched expression and his nails pressing hard enough into his palms to draw blood.

Natasha reaches out, curling her hands around his fingers and prying them away, and Loki looks down at the blood like he’s surprised.

“Huh,” he says.

Clint hasn’t stopped tapping his foot since they’ve got here. “So, uh. How did she-” he clears his throat, casting his gaze downwards. “I mean, how-”

“Strangulation,” Loki says, his voice low and breaking in the wrong places. “It was, uh. Slow.”

There’s almost a group-wince that goes around.

Tony looks up as Frigga, Loki’s mother, walks out of the bathroom from reapplying her mascara where it had streaked down her cheeks. “I just called the school. None of you are going in today.”

The words barely register with anyone, but a few of them nod blankly.

Loki manages a tight smile that dies on his lips. “Thanks, mom.”

She nods, tucking her hair behind her ears and sniffling. “Do you guys need some time alo-”

“Yeah,” Loki says, and Frigga looks half-gratefully at the rest of them before walking out, her shoes clicking loudly on the tiles, and everyone looks up at each other with a vague sense of _well, fuck_.

“So.” Bruce leans forwards, resting his palms on his knees. “Do we just sit at home and wait until Thor comes back? Or until the police calls us and says they’ve found another body?”

Tony rubs his hand over his face, then through his hair. “That depends. In this scenario, is Thor the body or the guy who put the body there?”

Loki snaps, “Don’t you fucking _dare_ -”

“Hey!” Tony raises his hands. “We _know_ it’s not him, but there’s a girl dead and people want someone to blame it on. Thor mysteriously going missing is going to look more than a bit suspicious to the cops.”

“Half of them are already assuming he killed her and then ran for it,” Natasha says. “The other half are sending out search parties to look for a body, his or otherwise. Either way, we’re fucked.”

Steve says, “But if he’s-”

“Oh, come _on_.” Natasha turns. “We all know he wouldn’t do it, which means he’s either already dead, captured, or on the run from whoever the real killer is.”

“Those aren’t our only two options,” Steve argues. “He could- he could be-”

Peter finally bursts: “Could we not talk about this? I mean, seriously? I’m getting kind of queasy here.”

Steve wets his lips. “We should probably leave this to the police.”

Peter opens his mouth, and then closes it, frowning. “We _are_ leaving it to the police. The amount we’re leaving to the police is infinite and absolute. We’re leaving it to the police _so_ much that-”

“No, we’re not, because I know that look.” Steve looks at Tony. “We can’t get involved in a _murder_ investigation, Tony.”

Tony balances his phone on one knee, determinedly looking at it and not at Steve. “I’m the son of a dead billionaire. I can get the resources, hire PIs-”

“I’m fine with that,” Steve says. “But you’re meaning to go deeper into this, I know you. You can’t let something like this rest.”

Tony finally looks up at him, his phone clattering to the floor. “Can you? Are you really just going to sit here, or in class, while Thor is fuck knows where and very possibly dead?”

Steve holds his gaze for a good few seconds before clenching his jaw and staring daggers at the wall. “No. No, I don’t think I can.”

Tony feels relief flood his system, because Steve’s on his side, which means everyone else probably will be, too, and he can’t do this without them, and oh my _god_ , shut up. “Okay, then. Where the fuck do we start?”

Steve shrugs, the lift and drop of his shoulders heavier than it should be. “I don’t know, I-” he stops, sits up straight in his chair.

Tony raises his eyebrows at him. “What’s up, Lassie? Is Timmy in the well?”

“The note,” Steve says, sounding strangled. “The note in my locker yesterday, do you think-”

Loki rolls his eyes, scoffing loudly. “Really? A _note_? I feel like I’m in a bad episode of Veronica Mars.”

Tony wrinkles his nose. “The note was probably just a freshman being an asshole, it doesn’t mean anyth-”

“What note?”

The fear edging Peter’s voice makes them turn.

“Uh,” Tony says. “Someone left a note in Steve’s locker. ‘ _Ashes, ashes’_ -”

“ _’The first falls down_ ,’” Peter cuts him off, his face contorting slightly. “I- I got the same note.”

Tony most definitely doesn’t feel a chill rock its way up his spine at that. He nods silently for a few seconds before saying, “Okay, fuck this. What is this, ‘ _I Know What You Did Last Summer’_? Did Sif kill a hobo with Thor and not say anything about it?”

“It could be a coincidence,” Bruce says, twisting his hands together.

Tony throws up his hands to the ceiling. “And Thor could really be Danny Phantom, who is floating, invisible, above our heads this very moment! What the fuck is the killer trying to say? ‘ _Oooh, look at me, I can shove a pointless note into your lockers, I’m so intimidating, fear me_ -’”

“It wasn’t in my locker,” Peter cuts him off. “It was on my desk, in my room. I thought Loki had put it there to freak me out, or something.”

Again, Tony supresses a shudder. “O-o-kay. That’s- fucking creepy.” He grits his teeth. “So the killer knows where we live. Right. Very comforting. What, so is the body count just going to keep rising until we find something, or-”

“The first falls down,” Clint says. “Who’s next? Why’d he kill Sif in the first place? What crazy fucker would go to the trouble of sneaking into Peter’s house, and our school-”

“Could’ve been someone that blends in,” Natasha says quietly. “That Peter’s parents let into the house, someone that goes to our school.”

“My parents weren’t home the whole afternoon,” Peter argues. “Anyone could’ve gotten in.”

“Yeah, if they know how to pick locks-”

“ _Everyone_ knows how to pick locks.”

“Okay, _stop_.” Steve raises his head from his hands, and everyone falls silent.

Steve inhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This- at first I thought this could all just be some elaborate prank, but Sif is really, truly dead in there. Thor is MIA, and apparently Peter and I got notes from a person or people’s unknown.”

“Wow,” Tony says. “You really have been watching CSI.”

Steve shoots him a tired glare, and continues. “If there really is someone out to get us, that means there has to be a reason. Sif obviously wasn’t an accident, since he left the notes.”

“Or she,” Natasha adds, and when everyone stares at her: “What? I’m way more likely to go on a killing spree than any of you.”

“Point taken,” Steve says. “He or she- _they_ could be anyone. It might be more than one person, it might-” he pauses, running a finger over his lips. “Look, the only thing we know for sure is that Sif is dead, Thor is missing and we’ve been getting notes. That’s it. We should leave it to the police-”

Tony starts to protest, but Steve drowns him out. “-until something else happens. When one of us gets another note, or they find Thor. Or- or his body.”

Bruce bites hard on the inside of his cheek. “Where did, uh. Where’d they find the body?”

Tony frowns, and then remembers _oh, he means Sif_. “They got an anonymous call from some guy, and they found her at the side of the road on Latterson.”

“Latterson? That’s one of those-”

“Those backwash streets that no-one ever goes on, yeah.” Tony nods. “They said she wasn’t killed there, though.”

“Well, this just gets more and more fun,” Clint mutters into his hands, rubbing lines into his forehead with his fingernails. “When we find the guy- or girl, fuck off, Tash- that did this, I’ll skin them.”

Loki looks up, his eyes glossy-green in the bare bulbs that hang from the ceiling. “We’ll help.”

-

They probably shouldn’t be doing the thing.

They _definitely_ shouldn’t be doing the thing, not when Sif’s body temperature is the same as the metal shelf that she’s in and Thor is who the fuck knows, but when Steve shoves him bodily against a wall the second they get into his room, Tony goes offline.

For a second, Steve just stares at him, and Tony can feel both of their breathing patterns go to shit as Steve crooks Tony’s head and kisses him, soft and tender  and tongues barely brushing and what the _fuck_ , this does not compute with the wall-shoving.

This has never been about tenderness.

The thing has always been last-minute desperation, something they do when they’re bored or curious or horny or have a test next period that they’re sure they’re going to fail.

Or, y’know. Every lunchtime for the past week and a half, because apparently Steve is an untested drug that Tony likes more than alcohol or pretzels or fucking coffee.

It’s always been their hands fisting in each other’s shirts, shoving their hands down their pants and biting down on their hands, a pillow, a fucking curtain to muffle their shouts. It’s always been like that, ever since they had started doing this four months ago, Tony’s made goddamn sure of that: he pushes his head into Steve’s shoulder so they don’t have to make eye contact, kisses Steve silent when he starts to say something he’ll regret later.

It’s always rough, it’s always fast and coarse yells and wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

This, however- the hesitance of Steve’s hand as it runs across Tony’s jaw, the soft/hard ratio of his fingers- is unexplored territory.

Which is probably why he might whimper a bit when Steve draws back, panting and pupils blown wide. “We- we probably shouldn’t do this when- I mean, Jesus, Tony, we just got a call less than three hours ago that Sif was dea-”

“Sex relieves stress,” Tony blurts, his hair a mess over his forehead. “We’re both very stressed. Death of a friend. Possible killer leaving us notes. Thor’s probably dead. The mediocre day to day existence of pubescent, hormonal teenagers. Stressful. This is just us relieving stress.”

Steve huffs out a laugh into Tony’s neck. “Relieving stress.”

Tony’s voice doesn’t shake, it doesn’t wobble slightly when he says, “Well, yeah, that’s what the thing is, right?”

The hand that’s on his jaw is trembling slightly, but Tony can’t tell whether it’s from tension or exhaustion.

“Yeah,” Steve says, his voice hoarse. “Yeah, it’s- yeah.”

He drops his hand, and Tony almost says something stupid, like _no, put it back, I like it there_.

Steve swallows. “You’re a good friend, Tony.”

“Back at you,” Tony says quickly, before his brain makes him spout anything else. “And friends don’t let friends make out with someone inadequate. Or something. Kiss me now?”

Tony pretends he doesn’t feel Steve’s hand on his chest, splayed, like he’s feeling Tony’s heartbeat up through his palm, up his arm, up into his own heart.

Steve bends- Tony’s never admitted it, but he sort of loves how he’s shorter than him, that Steve has to tip Tony’s chin back. That Steve’s arms can wrap around him, rest his chin on Tony’s head if he angles it right.

It makes Tony feel… safe. Loved, even.

Oh, god, shut the fuck _up_.

Steve kisses him, and Tony lets him brush his hand through his hair, lets him slowly lick his way past Tony’s lips instead of just claiming his mouth with quick, short flicks.

It’s different, and weirdly intimate, and Tony feels it like liquid heat injected past his skin, warming his bones.

He closes his eyes, and lets himself get lost in Steve’s mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

When Natasha walks into Steve’s room, she might stare a bit.

Which is to be expected, because when the two guys that have been obviously and obliviously in love with each other since third grade are _spooning on the bed_ , you have a reason to stare.

She blinks. She blinks again.

When the decides that it is indeed real and she’s not hallucinating some fucked-up version of what should have happened years ago, she pulls out her phone, snaps a picture and sends it to Clint and Loki with the caption:

 ** _I win, bitches_**.

She grins to herself, feeling stupidly light and bubbly because she fucking _knew_  that Tony would end up being the little spoon, and  _it has taken them fucking long enough_ , good god. Trust them to not get together until after someone dies.

It’s then that Steve wakes up, raising a hand to scrub at his eyes.

Natasha watches him as he realizes  _hey, something’s on my arm_ , which turns into  _Tony’s on my arm_ , which turns into  _oh my god Natasha what the heck_ , which turns into Steve leaping up, which turns into his arm being whipped out from underneath Tony, which turns into Tony pinwheeling off the bed and onto the floor.

“What the  _fuck_ ,” Tony yells, dragging himself up to his feet by the bedpost. “Why’d you-”

He swallows his next words, staring at Natasha, who is seriously regretting not keeping her phone in camera-mode, because this is priceless and would get a million hits on Youtube, holy shit.

“Hi, Tash,” Tony chokes. “We weren’t-”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Steve blurts, and Natasha is stuck between slapping them both and mashing their heads together until they kiss.

She stares at the both of them, and Tony starts babbling about how they were watching TV and then had gotten tired and  _that’s_  what happened, and she starts despairing for humanity because if these two morons aren’t together yet, then there’s obviously no hope for anyone, anywhere, ever, and fucking  _god_ , boys are emotionally stunted idiots.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” she says, cutting them both off so they stutter themselves silent. “Speaking of which, it’s past noon. Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”

Steve is blushing furiously, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Why are you here?”

Natasha lifts her eyebrows. “Do I need a reason?”

“No, I-” Steve blanches. “No, of course you don’t need a reason, we’ve been walking into each other’s rooms since we were-”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waves him off. “I just dropped by to tell you that we’re going to school tomorrow, apparently. Well, if we’re ‘emotionally prepared’ for it, quote, unquote.”

Tony snorts quietly. “Right. Can I pretend to be an emotional shell so I don’t have to turn in my essay for Bio?”

Steve frowns, turning to Tony. “You said you finished that.”

Tony does a sideways-glance at him, and clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh. I was kidding.”

“Uh-huh.” Steve rolls his shoulders along with his eyes.

Natasha watches them both, trying not to let her eye twitch.

Fucking idiots.

“Okay, I lied.”

They both look up, and Natasha smiles, thin-lipped. “I found a note on my folder.”

 _That_  gets their attention, finally.

She brings her hand out of her pocket, the one that’s been clenched around the paper for almost half an hour, and unfolds it as Tony and Steve both come around so they can see it.

“ _’Enough with the vague shit,_ ’” Tony reads. “ _’Check the obituaries from the 70s_.’ Well, at least they’re not fucking around.”

“Call everyone,” Steve says. “Ask them if they got the same note.”

-

Steve calls, Natasha Googles, and Tony paints his nails.

When they both look at him like  _what the fuck are you doing, people are dying and we’re getting mysterious notes_ , he groans loudly. “What? It only takes one person to find the obits. I’m useless until someone needs hacking.”

“Would be nice,” Natasha nods at the computer. “Strangely, they won’t let a random sixteen year old look at confidential files.”

Tony sits up, and goes to crack his knuckles before remembering the nail polish. “Ahhh. Give me ten minutes for this to dry?”

Natasha pulls the finger at him and tosses the nail-polish remover onto the seat next to him.

He sighs dramatically. “Philistines.”

Steve pokes his head in from the other room, covering half of his phone. “No-one else got any notes. Looks like it’s just you, Tash.”

“I swear to god,” Natasha says, squinting. “I know this handwriting. It’s right on the tip of my fucking tongue, but I can’t-”

Tony leans over, not touching the remover and very pointedly blowing on his nails. “Really? It just looks like writing to me.”

Natasha starts saying, “And we trust your judgement completely,” but cuts herself off as Steve walks into the room with a forced expression, followed by Obie.

Both Tony and Natasha stand, their backs covering the desk.

“Hey, Obie,” Tony says, one hand curling around the note behind Natasha’s back and stuffing it into his pocket. “What are you doing here?”

Obie claps his hands together. “Just checking up on my favourite nephew! I heard about your friend, thought I’d drop in to see if you were okay.”

“Uh.” Tony blinks. “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m- I thought you were in Malibu, taking care of the company?”

Obie’s face falls slightly. He sighs, sliding an arm around Tony’s shoulder. “You’re more important to me than thecompany, Tony.”

Tony’s face has a tiny spasm, because okay, physical  _and_  verbal displays of affection. “Thanks,” he manages, determinedly not looking at anyone, least of all Steve, who is probably looking at him with that weird expression that Tony can’t place. “That, uh. Thanks.”

Obie claps Tony hard on the shoulder before letting him go. “No problem. You’re graduating soon, anyway, so it’ll be time to-”

“Yeah,” Tony says loudly, cutting him off. “Yep, ha ha, absolutely, you’re hilarious, Obie, can I show you around Steve’s house, it has an awesome hammock out front-”

“Tony,” Steve says, in unison with Obie, and Tony winces.

Steve and Obie glance at each other, and Steve sort of shifts forwards towards Tony, but Obie is faster- “You’re going to take over the company after graduation, right, m’boy?”

Obie grins, all plastic and toothy and full of fake-warmth, his arm snaking around his shoulders again. “That was always the plan, right?”

Tony half wants to cringe away, half wants to lean in. “I- it’s- I’ve sort of been having second thoughts,” he blurts, and wow, make  _that_  sound more childish.

Obie’s smile flickers for a second. “Ah,” he says. “Right.”

Tony expects exactly what happens: Obie pats him on the shoulder again. “Well, that’s how teenagers are, I guess! Call me when you want to talk about it.” He smiles towards Natasha, then Steve, who don’t react except for staring at Tony. “It was nice seeing you two again.”

“Likewise,” Natasha says, turning her head slightly towards him but not taking her eyes off Tony.

Obie raises his eyebrows at them both, still smiling, and nods at them both again before walking out.

Steve shuts the door. “Tony, what did he just say?”

“That’s how teenagers are,” Tony says, trying to judge how many broken bones he would get if he jumped out of the window right now. “That Obie, such a joker-”

“That was always the plan?” Natasha folds her arms. “You said you’d never take up that job.”

Tony’s throat clicks. He looks down at the carpet. “I- come on, guys, I’m Howard Stark’s son, it’s sort of a  _life_  requirement.”

“You’d hate it,” Steve says quietly, and Tony can’t stop himself from looking up- Steve’s standing there, his jaw fixed and his gaze on Tony’s face, his hair matted on one side from sleeping against Tony’s cheek, and Tony breathes in raggedly.

“It probably wouldn’t be that bad,” he says, lying and knowing it and hating it so much he thinks he can taste it on the roof of his mouth.

Steve shakes his head, his gaze dropping slightly, and Tony’s never had Steve look at him like this, like he’s disappointed-

The phone rings, and Tony restrains himself from jumping.

It’s Steve’s phone- he glares at it for a second before flipping it open and pushing the ‘speaker’ button. “Clint? What’s-”

“Loki’s been arrested,” Clint blurts, his voice sharp and tinny through the phone. “They-”

Tony hears Clint swallow, his voice shaking on the next words:

“Fuck, they’re saying he killed Sif.”


	4. Chapter 4

Clint breaks the silence by whistling lowly. “So! Nice digs.”

Everyone stares at him.

He shrugs. “What? I mean, I haven’t seen a lot of jail cells, but-”

“Thank you, Clint,” Loki says dryly. “Your sarcasm is really making the best out of this situation.”

Clint bows, his hand sweeping the floor. “Back at you.”

They all shift into an awkward silence, because how the fuck do you casually fit  _hey, so did you actually kill Sif and possibly Thor_ into a conversation?

“I didn’t do it,” Loki says softly, and Tony startles before realizing that no, he didn’t just say that out loud.

“We know,” Peter says. “We- fuck, you wouldn’t kill anyone, Loki. You’re family.”

Loki raises an eyebrow at that, because he sort of shuns everything to do with that word. “For some reason, I don’t think that will work with the police.”

“Do they have evidence?” Bruce still hasn’t taken his hand off of his neck, where it’s rubbing a red mark that’s getting steadily more prominent. “I mean, they wouldn’t arrest you unless-

“You were at my house when Sif got killed,” Peter interrupts. “I- I can testify, or something, he-”

“I was at your house  _after_  Sif was killed,” Loki corrects him, his voice silky and grating in all the wrong ways. “With a bloody nose and numerous bruises. And how, exactly,” he says, looking up at them for the first time since they’ve gotten there, “does that look?”

Peter’s eyes flicker nervously towards the ceiling. “Uh. Not good.”

Steve- because he’s the leader, the captain, always has been- takes over. “Loki, what happened that night?”

Loki’s gaze drags to him, and holds it for a few seconds before leaning back against the wall. He looks down at his handcuffed wrists, rubbing a thumb into his palm. “I told you, some guys tried to mug me.”

Steve nods. “And you magically managed to get the slip over multiple guys, and then escape with your wallet?”

Loki smiles grimly. “I am considerably stronger than I look,  _Cap_.”

“I’m aware,” Steve says, gritting his teeth. “I’m also aware that even you can’t pull off something like that. And on top of that, I’m  _also_  aware that you wouldn’t kill anyone, least of all Sif, and even if it was an accident, you’d-”

“Don’t presume to know what I would do,” Loki says, too sharp, too fast, and almost to himself.

Steve glances over at Tony, and Tony is suddenly flashing back to his last Psychology class on basic human instincts that seems like an age ago: when people are scared, they will look towards something comforting, familiar.

 _Comfort_ , there we go- another reason for the thing. Probably most of the reason for their last make-out session.

Probably why Steve had kissed his way along Tony’s shoulders, up his neck, slow and soft until Tony had grabbed his shirt and shoved his tongue between his teeth.

“Loki,” Steve says, and he’s always had this stupid way of saying people’s names that gets them to spill their guts. “Where the heck were you?”

Loki’s throat clicks. He rubs his handcuffs together. “I can’t tell you.”

“Huh,” Peter squeaks. “Well, that’s lovely. The police are going to piss themselves over how innocent that sounds.”

 Steve doesn’t even react. “Yeah? Why not?”

Loki wraps one of the chains halfway around his hand, his fingernails poking through the holes. “What did I just say, exactly?”

“It can’t be that bad-”

“Again,” Loki says, twisting the chain. “I would like it if you would stop presuming things.”

For a few seconds, there’s no sound except for the  _snick_  of metal on metal, half-soft, half-sharp, like a knife being dragged across a kitchen countertop.

Natasha’s chair creaks slightly as she leans forwards, her arms locked against her knees. She opens her mouth before pausing, her eyes tracking. “It was your handwriting.”

Loki startles, but he keeps his eyes on his hands.

“It was yours,” Natasha repeats. “You’ve been leaving the notes.”

“Bullshit,” Clint says, too loud. He looks between Natasha and Loki, who still won’t meet his eyes. “Fucking hell, guys! This is  _Loki_ , we’ve known him since-”

“I didn’t kill Sif,” Loki says. “I didn’t. And I don’t know where Thor is. I don’t-” his voice breaks, but he stumbles through it. “I don’t even know if he’s alive.”

Bruce folds his arms, then unfolds them, then shoves both his hands through his hair like he has no idea what to do with his limbs. “How, uh. How do you know so much about this? What was-”

“You should still check the obituary reports from the 70s,” Loki says. Actually, he half-whispers it before clearing his throat and trying again. “It’s- they’re important.”

Steve doesn’t look away. He doesn’t do anything except look at Loki: steady, understanding- always Captain fucking America, even now, always that stupid nickname that they had made up for him when they were kids.

He says, “Loki,” in that damn tone that would probably get Tony to confess to theft, fraud, murder or otherwise. “Do you know who the killer is?”

There’s a grim silence, where Loki doesn’t look up, where Steve doesn’t speak, where everyone glances at each other.

Loki breathes in shakily. “All the good little girls and boys should go to bed now. School night tonight.”

-

For the first time in almost a year, Tony walks to school.

It takes a while.

Forty-eight minutes, actually.

He’s timed it- the first time he had timed it, it had been with Natasha, Bruce, and Steve. They had been twelve (well, the other had been twelve, Tony had been eleven, but he made up for it by being the most badass eleven-year-old in the history of eleven-year-olds ever, complete with the shoes that light up and have wheels in them, thank you very much), and Steve had stopped to put his other shoe on halfway there.

Tony remembers that, vividly. They had been walking along the Huberman’s fence, which had been hard as fuck to balance on, and as Bruce had jumped off, he had said, “Hey, where’s Steve?”

Natasha had hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “He’s back there.”

Tony had craned his neck over Natasha’s shoulder before hopping off the fence. “Steve! What’s with the hold-up?”

“I’m putting my shoe on,” Steve had called, bent over, and Tony had opened his mouth to ask,  _don’t you mean ‘shoes_ ,’ but then he had remembered that Steve had been running to catch up, and had left one of his shoes off.

Steve had looped his shoelaces into a knot and had pulled it tight. “Give me a second.”

Tony had felt something run through his body at the sight of Steve, in all his skinny, pre-pubescent glory and wispy blonde hair, tying his shoe on a crack on the sidewalk.

He didn’t realize it then.

It had taken him many of those moments- Steve would be doing something stupid, like balancing on a chair, or having a growth spurt during the second semester of freshman year, or running a comb through his hair thirty seconds before they have to be in class- and Tony would have it rush through him again.

It had taken him a while to realize that there are too many kinds of ways to fall in love, different kinds of being in love, and Tony’s pretty sure he has the short stick of all of them, because his kind fucking  _sucks_.

That being in love- or at least  _his_  kind of being in love, being in love with Steve, which hits at inconvenient times (and more frequently, lately), was an actual, physical feeling, like hunger, or grief: it sat in his gut and swelled, filling him until he could barely breathe.

It feels heavy, almost. It spreads, climbing from cell to cell like a cancer, like something solid and stupid and loud, sliding around his chest.

Honestly, it pisses him off, and it won’t stop.

So, Tony’s kind of perpetually in love with one of his best friends, and he had agonized over it for the first year or so, but at this point, he just shoves it back and gets the fuck on with his day.

Then the  _thing_  had started.

Tony hadn’t been planning it. One moment, they had been laughing breathlessly over each other after a particularly intense game of Halo, and the next, they had both laughed themselves into silence and Tony had said,  _we should make out_.

Seriously. It had just slipped out.

Like a fart.

Yep. He had accidentally asked Steve to make out with him, and had then compared it to letting slip a fart.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the mind of Tony fucking Stark.

Steve had stared at him for a few seconds, and Tony was in the middle of saying, _I was joking, I’m hilarious, do you want to go somewhere and never mention this again, oh god,_  when Steve had cut him off.

 _Do you mean it_?

Tony had blinked.  _Uh. Yes? I mean, just as friends. We’re both bored, so_.

Steve’s eyes had dropped to Tony’s mouth, a blush staining its way across his cheeks, which had had an insane way of turning Tony on for no reason at all.

I mean, it’s  _blushing_. It’s not supposed to be cute, or arousing, it’s supposed to be gross and weird, but Steve seemed to have an inane talent of making everything he did sexy as fuck.

Like brushing his teeth, for instance, which makes fuck-all sense, because seriously, what the fucking fuckedy  _fuck_ , there is absolutely nothing attractive about toothpaste.

 _Um_ , Steve had said.  _Um. I_.

Tony had drummed his fingers on the couch, more nervous than he should be, because he does this all the time with other people, it’s no big deal.

But then Steve had said,  _okay_ , and had closed the gap, kissing him with his eyes half-open.

The feeling in Tony had stirred inside him, turning every nerve haywire, and Steve’s lips were too soft and his hand was coming up to sort of cradle Tony’s cheek, and nope, he didn't know how to handle that shit-

He had shoved his hand behind Steve’s head, crushing him closer and deepening the kiss.

Steve had made a startled half-moan into his mouth, and Tony was  _gone_ , baby, gone.

It had been kind of awkward at first- they were at a weird angle for half of it, so Tony had had to bend his arm uncomfortably to unzip Steve’s pants.

Then Steve had finally said,  _okay, to heck with this_ , and had hauled them both onto the couch, sliding himself in between Tony’s legs.

Tony had said,  _you’re a fast learner_ , and Steve had grinned crookedly in a way that put Tony’s famous paparazzi smile to shame.

Tony had finished them off quickly, wrapping his hand around them both and jerking them off in short, sharp pulls.

Near the end, Tony had sort of lost it and had started babbling nonsense into Steve’s neck, things like  _oh my god you’re so_ \- and  _Jesus fucking Christ holy shit yes_ \- and Steve’s name, over and over until it had lost meaning.

Steve had started shuddering, his hand losing its rhythm on Tony’s cock, and had panted _, fuck, Tony_ , before coming over Tony’s hand with a shout.

Most of the time, Tony keeps it like that: ten-minute handjobs in the Janitor’s closet, blowjobs in the bathroom at a sleepover with the others, blindingly hot and deft fingers and groaning around their own fist that they stuff in their mouths to keep themselves quiet.

There are soft moments, of course. Steve absentmindedly running a hand through his hair, squeezing his hand, once or twice kissing his cheek before leaving.

Hell, even Tony slips up sometimes. He finds himself leaning into Steve’s knee when he’s sitting on the floor while Steve’s on the couch, his hand drifting towards Steve’s during class.

99% of the time, he manages to stop himself before doing anything stupid.

He makes up for it with light bites to the cords in Steve’s shoulders, by not removing any clothing until they have to, by tonging fresh hickeys that he strings across Steve’s neck. By muffling Steve’s shouts with his mouth, by swallowing around his cock until Steve comes down his throat.

He’s fast, he’s effective, he gets them both off in their free period and doesn’t straighten Steve’s jacket when they go to their next class.

He still makes passes at everyone else- the girls in his homeroom, the hot guys in his art class, his maths class- and Steve averts his eyes, but that’s normal, because Steve has always done that, even before.

They still go to parties together (not often, none of them really like parties), they still do their homework and joke about the new Latin teacher and have midnight binges on toast when neither of them can sleep.

Then one of them says,  _hey, do you wanna_ -

Tony keeps it short, blunt and clear: they’re friends. They’re just friends, it’s just sex (or sexual activities, tomay-to, tomah-to), and this is just a thing that they do sometimes. It doesn’t mean anything.

He doesn’t believe it, but whatever.

And Steve deserves better, he knows- he knows that one day, when he’s out of their lives and looking down the muzzle of a bottle, Steve’s going to be okay.

Steve’s going to have a wife with arched curls, with long eyelashes and bright eyes. And kids, and a white-picket fence brought from Steve’s probably-illustrious career as an artist.

At least, that’s what Tony has been thinking for a while, but with Sif dead and probably more to come, he’s not so sure.

And now people are dying and Loki’s mysteriously  _involved_ , and all Tony can concentrate on is getting another hit of Steve.

He can’t stop thinking that it’s going to get him killed at some point.


	5. Chapter 5

Fury’s first words after they walk in are, “Sit down, motherfuckers.”

Tony forces down his smile. “Y’know, I’m pretty sure principals aren’t supposed to swear in front of their students.”

“Well, aren’t you just a lot of lucky ducks,” Fury deadpans. “Stark. Barton. Banner. Haven’t seen you guys in a while. It’s been nice. Hey, Parker.”

“Again,” Peter says, “that last incident involving the locusts was  _totally_  Bruce’s fault-”

Bruce nudges him hard in the ribs as he sits down next to him. “Thanks, Peter.”

“Anytime.”

“Rogers,” Fury says, inclining his head at Steve, and then at Natasha. “Romanoff. I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of having you in my office.”

“No, sir,” Steve and Natasha chorus, and Tony catches their discreet high-five.

“Although,” Fury says, turning to face them, leaning over his desk. “That Granger boy still insists that it was you that put the itching powder there.”

“I deny any and all allegations to such a heinous event, Mr. Fury,” Natasha says, sitting down curtly in between Bruce and Tony, crossing her legs.

Fury eyeballs them all (because they can only see one, hahaha- okay, shut up) in their chairs, standing with his hands folded behind his back. “So. Just checking you’re not going on a homicidal shooting spree.”

Clint snorts. “Gee, thanks.”

“I’m not joking,” Fury says. “We have one student dead, another one missing, and you guys seem to be tied up in it.”

Fury has that rare quality that means he can scare the living shit out of you just by breathing.

Ironically, Natasha has the same quality.

Once, some girl had an asthma attack from getting glared at by both of them at the same time. Seriously, it’s on Youtube.

Steve meets his eyes innocently. “And what gives you that idea, sir?”

Steve’s always been like that. Always irritatingly polite, all  _sir_ ’s and  _ma’am_ ’s, but when the time comes, he stares them down, chews them out with said  _sir_ ’s and  _ma’am_ ’s and basically has the politest ways humanly possible of saying  _fuck you_.

Now that he thinks about it, it kind of turns Tony on.

He shifts in his seat.  _Don’t you fucking dare get a boner while in Fury’s office. I swear to god, I will chop you off_.

He imagines a distant screech of ‘ _nooooo_ ’ coming from his crotch, and his mouth twitches.

Fury glances at him suspiciously, but then turns his one eye back to Steve. “Loki’s in your circle, correct? Your little Breakfast Club thing.”

“I’d be Claire,” Clint announces, raising his hand.

“You’d make a very pretty Claire,” Fury says, still not looking away from Steve. “And a few of you were close with Sif.”

“No, sir,” Steve says. “Loki was the closest to her. She was just an acquaintance of ours.”

“Uh-huh,” Fury nods. “And what evidence do they have on your little friend?”

Steve doesn’t even flinch. “He has motives, means and no alibi. He was close to both the victims, but they don’t have any solid evidence as of yet.”

Tony remembers when they used to joke about Fury’s eyepatch being able to shoot laserbeams, because it looks kind of possible with the way Fury is glaring.

“Uh- _huh_ ,” Fury says again. “And you lot wouldn’t have any evidence, would you?”

“No, sir,” Steve says, smooth and unblinking and holy  _shit_ , Steve goody-two-shoes Rogers just lied to the principal, and  _why is he getting hard from this what the fuck_ -

Tony shifts again in his chair, thinking of unsexy things like grandmas and rotten apples and- and- nose hair.

Fury looks at them all for a long second before steepling his fingers against his chin. “You absolutely sure about that?”

Steve’s face gives nothing away, and certainly not  _we’re 90% sure Loki knows who the killer is but he refuses to tell us_. “You seem awfully suspicious, sir.”

Fury cocks an unimpressed eyebrow. “Your skills of observation are unmatched, Rogers. Your mother should be proud.”

“She barely goes a day without mentioning it, sir,” Steve says, straight-faced, and Tony bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.

Fury holds Steve’s gaze for a few seconds before folding his fingers together. “Fine. You’re all free to go. But if  _any_  of you have information,” he says, turning his eye at each of them in turn, “I strongly suggest that you tell the police.”

Tony stretches in his chair. “Whatever you say, Patchy. Can we go now? We’ll be late for our next class, and that’d be a tragedy.”

“I can see the unbelievable depth of your grief over it,” Fury says. “Get the hell out of my office.”

-

As expected, everyone stares.

It’s more than the usual staring, which consists of  _good lord, you’re attractive as fuck_ , mostly aimed at Natasha, Tony and Steve.

And Clint, whenever he’s in gym class. Some people look weirdly gorgeous while they’re sweaty, and Clint is the supreme leader of whoever they are.

But the staring is now directed at all of them, in every class, and it’s not the nice kind of staring.

It’s the kind that Tony feels on the back of his neck, the kind that’s accompanied by half-heard whispers.

He’s waiting for it when someone finally walks up to him and says, “Hey, did Loki really kill that girl?”

Tony grins around his lollipop before popping it from his mouth. “Nope. Thor’s not dead, either.”

The girl raises her eyebrows. “What? Is he back?”

Tony wraps his lollipop in the wrapper and lobs it into the bin. He points out the window. “Hey, look, a distraction!”

The girl’s head whips around and Tony ducks around the corner, pulling out his phone as he does.

-

_From: Tony._

_To: Steve._

**_Our closet. 30 seconds._ **

 

_From: Steve._

_To: Tony._

**_I can’t get across the school in 30 seconds._ **

_From: Tony._

_To: Steve._

**_Depends how dedicated you are. Run, Forrest, run!_ **

_From: Steve._

_To: Tony._

**_Tony, I’m going as fast as I can. Breathe._ **

 

-

“You’re late.”

Steve glares slightly, his hair flopping in his face as he shuts the door behind him. “Do you know how hard it is to text while running?”

Tony barks out a startled laugh. “You actually ran?”

Steve might be blushing, but it’s hard to tell since he’s already flushed from- running, okay, he  _did_  run. “Well, yeah. I like… this.”

Tony wets his lips, suddenly needing Steve even more than he did 30 seconds ago. “Uh. I like this, too.”

He steps forward, his footsteps suddenly jerky and uncoordinated, when Steve says, “Hey, are you okay?”

Tony’s footsteps stutter, and he comes to a stop right in front of him. “I, uh. What? Yeah, just- everyone is saying Thor’s dead.”

Steve’s eyes track over his face, and Tony watches the strain of his jaw. “Yeah. But people… people say things, right? It doesn’t mean it’s true.”

Tony’s throat clicks thickly, like he’s trying to work past the lumps. He looks up at Steve, meeting his eyes, everything suddenly heavier. Because they’re trying, both of them, all of them- saying  _yeah, he’ll be fine, we’ll be fine, we’re good_.

They’re trying- shoving the thoughts back, the ones that knock at their heads and make them think of graveyard dirt, of what to say in a eulogy, of the five stages of grief.

Tony wants to say,  _so, do you wanna_ , because this is why they do it, right? Because they need it. Not even each other, just a pair of lips, some shoulders to slide around, body heat pressed against their side.

For a second, they just stand there, looking at each other’s mouths and eyes and hands, almost unable to see each other in the dark.

Tony swallows again, too loud in the quiet room. He leans up, his lips about half an inch from Steve’s before he chickens out, because this is just too- everything.

He breathes in shakily, and ignores how Steve leans forwards slightly, like he’s chasing his lips. “Uh. You have a free period, right?”

There’s barely any light, but this close, he can see the feverish blue of Steve’s eyes. “Yeah.”

Tony swallows. “Good.”

He rubs a hand over the front of Steve’s jeans, heat sparking in his gut as he feels that Steve is already hard.

Then there’s a hand around his wrist, stilling it, and Tony looks up again.

Steve’s pupils are blown wide, his mouth is slack. He pulls Tony’s hand towards him, sliding his hand up his arm. “I- can I-?”

Tony’s only half-aware that he’s nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, whatever, just-” He stops, sucking in a breath as Steve drops to his knees, his fingers already at Tony’s zipper.

Steve’s only done this once before- they had both been blind drunk, so it hadn’t been that good, and Tony had felt a few scrapes of teeth before he had made Steve pull off and finish him off with a sloppy handjob. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed it, but Steve had tried to take in too much, too fast, and hadn’t listened to Tony when he had told him it was okay to slow down.

Steve’s  _definitely_  blushing now, even though Tony can’t see his face from this distance, in this light, but when he palms Steve’s cheek, it’s heated.

Tony can’t stop his startled moan as Steve drags his tongue up his cock, flicking over the head a few times before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the tip.

Steve looks up as his mouth closes over the head, sucking slowly, and Tony’s hand sort of clenches into his shoulder. “ _Oh_ \- fucking  _Christ_ , Steve.”

Steve just smiles, his tongue teasing his slit, sliding down lower until Tony feels the back of Steve’s throat muscles fluttering around him.

He sucks in a rattled breath, half-choking as Steve keeps going down and down and  _down_  until his lips touch the wiry hair at the base.

Tony lets his head hang back on his neck. His thighs shudder as Steve bobs up and down on his cock, pausing a few times to circle his tongue around the flared head, watching it flush darker before lowering his mouth back down.

Tony bites down hard on his lip, muffling the aborted whimpers that keep trying to shove their way through. When he hears the soft  _snick_ of another zipper, he looks down-

“Fuck,” he gasps through his teeth, because Steve has his own jeans half-pushed down, his hand wrapping around himself in desperate, quick jerks as he slides his lips down even further on Tony’s dick.

Tony’s breathing has been ragged for a while now, but he doesn’t realize how bad it is until he tries to say Steve’s name and fails. He moans helplessly, his hips jerking forwards slightly before trying again: “Steve-  _Steve_ , fuck, pull off, I’m gonna-”

Steve groans around his cock, almost too loud, and forces Tony’s cock deeper down his throat as his hand blurs over his own.

Tony bites down on his tongue as he comes, unable to speak, unable to do anything but watch- and  _feel_ , fucking Christ- as Steve swallows around his cock, once, twice, three times, before finally pulling off.

He rests his head against Tony’s thigh, his fist trembling as it moves up and down, and Tony sinks to his knees before he knows what he’s doing.

Steve mouths his name before saying it, almost a whisper, and Tony feels like he’s out of his mind, like he’s possessed, like he’s going to burn up. He surges forwards, licks the come from Steve’s chin, bites at his lips so they swell, sucks on his tongue-

Steve’s breath hitches as he comes, choking Tony’s name into his mouth as he spills over his own hand.

For a few seconds, they just sit there in the dark, getting their breathing back to normal and trying to stop trembling, Steve’s head resting on Tony’s shoulder.

They both jump as they hear the bell ring, and Tony feels it vibrate up through Steve’s body.

He pulls back and yep, Steve’s blushing, and it makes his heart clench because he’s so painfully, awkwardly in love with him for having a blush that spreads across his cheeks and down his neck.

Steve clears his throat, and Tony’s dick jerks as he realizes that Steve’s voice is going to be hoarse for the rest of the day.

Steve breathes slowly for a few seconds before saying, “Uh. Thanks. I… needed this.”

Tony nods into Steve’s neck, sweat running down his spine. “What are friends for?”

Steve laughs at that, sort of hollow and empty-sounding, and they both hold on a bit longer than they have to.


	6. Chapter 6

It might just be the fact that he’s an abnormally smart, bored teenager with ADHD, but for some reason, looking through old obituaries on the internet right next to a prison cell doesn’t exactly fill Tony with excitement.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Loki says, for about the fifth time.

Tony wisely chooses to ignore him, and instead rolls over onto his stomach. Oddly, it’s hard to get comfortable on concrete. “Y’know, someone should be complimenting me on both getting wifi next to a prison cell and hacking into government files.”

“Very impressed,” Natasha says, rocking back and forth, her head thumping against the wall. “Done yet?”

Tony pauses. “I take it back. This is disgustingly easy.” He squints at the screen. “Good god, this is insulting.”

“I’m sure you’ll suffer through it,” Bruce says, ducking to avoid Natasha’s head. “Done yet?”

“Maybe if you would stop _asking_ -” Tony’s fingers pause over the keyboards. “Ah. Nope, done. The 70s, right?”

Loki sucks in his cheeks. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Okey-dokey. What am I looking for?”

Loki loops his chains around one of the poles, twisting his fingers together. “Oh, I don’t _know_. Guess.”

Tony and Bruce share a look.

“ _Someone’s_ a little grumpy,” Peter says, shifting so his head is pressed against one of the bars next to Loki’s knee.

Loki bumps his knee against Peter’s head, none too gently. “This isn’t exactly the luxury suite.”

“Aw, poor ickle Loki,” Tony pouts. “Okay, seventies. Blah, blah, blah, the usual… and a string of unsolved homicide cases, he- _llo_.”

“No fucking _way_.” Peter bolts up to look at the screen. “Seriously? We’re dealing with a serial killer?”

“They were all strangled,” Bruce says, peering through his glasses. “Four of them. Two girls, two guys.”

“Peggy Carter, Jessica Drew, Charles Xavier, all ’76,” Tony reads. “Then… fuck, I don’t know how to pronounce that name. Something Yinsen, in ‘78.”

Peter is slowly shaking his head. “Shit. _Shit_ , I heard my aunt and uncle talking about one of those girls last night, it’s- they acted like it was this taboo thing that none of them talk about, but they both seemed to know a lot about it.”

“Oh, obviously they’re all involved,” Tony says, rolling his eyes at Peter and clicking to the Yinsen guy’s page.

“They’re not.”

Tony, Peter, Natasha and Bruce all turn, and Loki is smiling that strained snake-smile. “They’re not involved.”

Tony’s fingers come to a rest on the keys, his eyes on Loki. “Things would be a lot smoother if you would just _tell_ us-”

“I can’t,” Loki snaps, his eyes flashing grey in the fading light, and suddenly, all the fight goes out of him, like he’s deflating.

His shoulder sag, his gaze flickers around the walls. “I- he’s- I am _protecting_ you, do you not understand that? If I tell the police-”

“So it’s a he,” Peter says.

Loki jerks slightly, his chains clinking against the bars, and Tony’s chest twists: he looks so fucking _destroyed_ , trying to keep a tough front and having it slip through the bars.

Actually, for a lot of things, Loki is always on the edge. The edge of the group, of his grades, and Tony understands, he gets it: the concept, the theorem, living the idea of always being _too_ _much_ and _not enough_ at the same time.

They just handle it differently.

Loki by hanging back, keeping quiet in the shadows. By continuously letting everyone else take the spotlight, letting them lead the way, while he stays in the sidelines and licks cotton candy from his fingers. By walking beside them, offering comfort and quips and slick-smiles, smirking when he has to and even when he doesn’t.

Tony by swaggering into class half an hour late, hungover, and making out with the head cheerleader against the wall of the science room. By downing a bottle of vodka the night before his midterms and still acing them. By being pushed against a wall and having a tongue shoved down his throat, or by being the one doing the pushing.

Honestly, Tony isn’t sure which tactic works better.

“It is a he,” Loki agrees quietly. He runs a tongue over his bitten lips, and Tony notices how torn they are. “I can’t… tell you much else. I _want_ to help you, believe me, I-”

Natasha catches Tony’s eye, and she tilts her head towards Loki slightly.

Tony shrugs helpessly.

Natasha rolls her eyes at him before turning to Loki and saying, “Is he the one who gave you the bruises?”

Loki jerks again, like he’s been hit, and his hand goes towards his shoulder, the one with the bruise on it. He says, almost too quiet to hear, “Yes.”

She nods evenly. “Okay, then. I hope you realize that this makes us want to kick the living shit out of him even more.”

When Loki’s laugh comes, it’s riddled with holes. “I do, yes.”

The door opens then, and the guard pokes his head through. “Guys,” she says, and her voice is surprisingly gentle for a prison guard. “Time to go home.”

Bruce says, “Thanks, Wanda,” and nods at her as she closes the door.

There’s a heavy silence that lasts a few seconds before Peter clears his throat awkwardly. “They can’t hold you here forever without a trial, you know.”

Loki cocks a slick eyebrow at him. “They do not have enough evidence for that yet, you dunce. They don’t know what else to do with me.”

Tony snaps his laptop closed. “Well, this was lovely. We should do it again. See you, Loki.”                   

Loki’s throat works like he’s trying to say something, but he just sits back and closes his eyes, folding his hands together.

-

It’s becoming a routine.

Tony gets stressed, goes around to Steve’s, they make out and Tony ends up sleeping on the pull-out bed in Steve’s room.

Steve has offered his bed a few times, but

1: That suggested an actual relationship, with cuddling and spooning etc, and

2: It also suggested something more than handjob/blowjobs, and that’s a subject that they’ve both been sidestepping around for a while now.

So after they finish, with Tony biting into Steve’s shoulder and Steve crying out into the pillow as they come almost simultaneously, Tony doesn’t even lie there to get his breath back. He just wipes his hand on the sheets before rolling sideways, off the bed, and onto the roll-out bed on the floor.

He blinks up at the ceiling, his breath knocked out of him, and grins at Steve when he shifts to the side of the bed to look at him. “What?”

“You got out of there fast,” Steve remarks, and Tony tries not to take much pride in how unsteady his voice is, how that’s his come on Steve’s palm.

He shrugs. “I’m tired. Sleeping now. Sleep is good.”

“Sleep _is_ good,” Steve agrees, and then wrinkles his nose. “Ew. Did you wipe your hand on the bed?”

“The unfortunate downside of having an orgasm,” Tony says into his pillow. “Shhhh. Sleeping.”

Steve sighs. “I’m having a shower. You know, to get clean. _Instead_ of wiping it all over my sheets. Could you clean if off with some wet-wipes?”

“I _could_ ,” Tony says, pushing his pillow into a better shape. “Doesn’t mean I _will_. Say pretty please.”

He makes the mistake of trying to aim a grin at Steve, who catches him off-guard with his expression- soft, fond, like Tony’s all he wants in the world.

Steve laughs, and it falls on Tony’s ears like balm. “Pretty please.”

Tony’s mouth flaps open and closed before he chokes, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Steve lobs a cushion at him before getting up and stretching, and _wow_ , okay, that’s a fucking gorgeous sight. “Did you take my towel again?”

“How dare you,” Tony says. “It’s safe and sound, on the rack.”

Steve yawns, padding into the bathroom. “Whatever you say.”

He closes the door behind him, and Tony knows that he’s checking for the towel, the red fluffy one that is basically the only one Steve ever uses.

He stretches his arm out as far as it can go, reaching for the drawer. His fingertips scrape the air in front of it, and he groans inwardly.

“Fuuuuuck. Just- levitate towards me,” Tony says, his cheek squashed into the bed, his fingers grabbing at open air.

When the drawer doesn’t magically snap open, he pushes himself up and trudges over to it, pulling it open and wanting to just fall over and sleep for the next few days.

His eyes track through the contents- an old pencil case, some paper and- wet wipes, yes.

He pulls it out and throws it on the bed, denting the blankets, about to close the drawer when he takes another look at the papers.

They’re not just slides of paper, he realizes- they’re drawings.

Drawings of- a hand? What?

At first, he only reaches for the first piece of paper, but he ends up with an entire pad, flipping through. The first page is just drawings of the hand, over and over again- the same hand, the same fingers, the same palm, drawn in repeated bits and pieces.

He blinks at it, because the hand is so fucking familiar, and it’s on the tip of his fucking tongue and he knows that if he just-

 _Oh_ , he thinks, looking at his fingers holding the paper, and it clicks into place:

It’s his.

It’s his hand in the drawing, wrapping around his favourite coffee mug. Then again, down to the elbow, tapping against his tablet. His hand, bandaged with a napkin, like it had been a few weeks ago after burning it with a soldering iron.

He flips the page: they’re all of Tony, or at least parts of him: Tony’s grinning mouth, his fingers, his neck stretching sideways, a strip of his hipbone under his baggy shirt.

Then a few of him in dark shading: Tony in bed, half-twisted to turn off the lamp, Tony unbuckling his belt with unsteady hands, Tony with his arm flung across his eyes, Tony, biting down softly on his lower lip, his eyes bright and teasing.

The pad has obviously been taken care of- the only blemish he can see is a coffee stain, bleeding through the top right-hand corner of each page.

He turns a page, and his breath gets stuck in his throat.

This time, it’s the both of them: it’s not filled in, but instead drawn in loose, gaping strokes.

Neither of them are clothed- Tony has his legs hitched up around Steve’s hips, one hand bruising Steve’s shoulder. One of Steve’s hands are lost between them, the other is entwined with Tony’s free hand- their fingers are twisted together, pressed above Tony’s head.

It’s kind of vague in the middle, a jumble of sweeping lines, so Tony can’t tell who is inside who, who is thrusting into the tight, slick heat.

But that’s not what gets his attention: it’s their eyes, how they’re holding each other’s gaze, like they need each other, like they’re falling apart, like desperation.

Tony closes his eyes, running his fingers over the inked lines. He imagines his legs being pushed open, half-gentle, half-fumbling. He imagines Steve pushing inside him, chasing his hot breath with his mouth, catching Steve’s gasp.

He imagines sweaty wrists on sweaty hands in sweaty hair, gripping. He imagines Steve rocking against him, _into_ him, again and again until he can’t even scream, can only let his mouth fall open, his head fall back as it consumes him, as-

“Hey, do you know where my mom put the shampoo?”

Tony whips around, papers still in hand, breathing hard.

Steve ties his towel tighter around his waist. “You okay? You look-” he pauses, his eyes falling on the papers.

Tony watches his face as he looks at the drawer, then at Tony, and puts two and two together.

“Oh,” Steve says. Then, a blush burning its way down his neck: “ _Oh_. Oh, shit, I- you-” He swallows, takes a few quick steps towards Tony before jerking to a halt.

Tony watches him- his feet are soaking into the carpet, water dripping steadily from his hair, down his naked chest, his mouth too pink and his eyes too blue and he’s _beautiful_ , the most fucking gorgeous thing Tony’s ever seen.

And even through that, he can’t help seeing the old Steve, the small, gawky Steve Rogers with a small set of shoulders, who never backed down from a fight, never looked away.

He feels detached, like he doesn’t have control over his own limbs, like his hand is as much a part of his body as the paper he’s holding.

He blinks, tuning back in, and Steve is standing in front of him, saying his name, saying, “-ould have got your permission, you- your body, I mean, it’s- it’s just- I can’t _not_ draw you, you’re- you’re kind of overwhelming, I-”

“Overwhelming,” Tony repeats, his voice coming out cracked.

Steve swallows. “I- maybe that’s the wrong word.” He pushes a hand through his hair, laughing shakily. “Who am I kidding, of course that’s the right word.”

Tony makes a choked-sounding noise, and Steve blurts, “I think that’s the most appropriate word to use when you’re involved.”

Tony’s still holding the papers- the sketches of his wrists, of Steve sweating on top of him, of their fingers lacing together- and they feel like lead in his hand.

“Tony, are-” Steve shifts nervously from foot to foot. “Are you okay?”

“It’s just sex,” Tony manages, and watches the flinch. “It’s just sex, we’re just- relieving stress.”

Steve jerks back like Tony hit him. His jaw locks. He looks like he’s fighting the words in his own head, struggling to keep his voice steady as he says, “You can’t really believe that.”

“I do,” Tony says, and feels the lie like a slap to his own face. “I do, that’s all it is. We’re friends.”

“We’re not _just_ friends,” Steve insists. “We’re more than- fuck, Tony, come on! I- we- I’d do anything for you,” he whispers.

Tony says, “I know.”

Says, “I’d do anything for you, too.”

Says, “I’m sorry, I don’t- I can’t-”

Steve’s face is getting more shattered by the second, and Tony opens his mouth to say _sorry_ again when the fucking phone rings.

They both jump, and the papers slip from Tony’s hands.

They watch as the pages fan over the floor at their feet, pencil-strokes of Tony’s hands and ankles and neck, of the freckles dusting his nose.

“Uh,” Steve says, and coughs. “Um, that’s your phone-”

“Yep,” Tony says, and says it a few more times for good measure as he scrabbles for his phone, which is in his jacket pocket, which is hanging over a chair, which is fucking hard to get to, why can’t he stop his hands shaking-

He fumbles his phone open and shoves it to his ear. “What?”

A short silence, and then:

“You seem troubled, my friend.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Tony says automatically. “ _Fuck you_ , holy shit, you’re not dead, oh, my _god_ , Thor, you fucking _asshole_ -”

“ _Thor_?” Steve makes a grab for the phone. “Christ, is he okay?”

Tony angles himself away from Steve’s arm, which is aiming at the cell-phone. “Thor, are you okay?”

“Of course,” Thor’s confused voice comes less than a second later. “Why would I not be?”

Tony barks out a laugh, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ, you fucking asshole. You are going to owe us for the rest of your life, _fuck_ you.”

He breathes out shakily. “What happened?”


	7. Chapter 7

When Thor walks in, he is promptly hit in the face with a TARDIS pillow.

Tony marches up, his finger stabbing him in the chest. “ _That’s_ for not telling us you’re going on a fucking impromptu road trip to your dad’s. I mean, _really_? Fucking _seriously_? Could you have picked _worse_ timing, ever-”

“Again, I apologize, my friends.” Thor says, his expression wrecked. “I did not mean to be out of reach for so long, especially-”

“O- _kay_ ,” Peter cuts him off, coming to stand in between Tony and Thor. “Enough with the heartfelt apologies. Although I would _very_ much like to slap Thor right now-”

“Do it,” Natasha says.

Peter glares. “Even though I’d like to, I _won’t_. I’m too busy being relieved that he’s not mangled in some creepy guy’s attic somewhere.”

“I second your sentiment,” Loki says softly, and Thor’s face fucking _collapses_ as he turns, as he sees the handcuffs, the bars.

He starts: “Brother, I-”

Loki holds up his hands, the chains shifting together. “All is forgiven. Just- remember your cellphone charger next time. You great fucking oaf.”

Thor’s mouth flickers, just for a second, and it’s mirrored on Loki’s face: relief, regret, love, all mixed into the half-lived smile.

Tony has seen it on their faces a lot: after another screaming match on the phone between their parents, or Loki comes into class with a hood on and refuses to take it off, so they all know the bruises that are probably scattered around his jawline.

When Loki comes home late, or vanishes without telling anyone and comes back the next day, sometimes without bruises, but mostly with them.

They always look at each other like that, always a shoulder to lean on even when each of them insists that they don’t need it.

“Took your time, buddy,” Bruce says from the corner, unfolding his arms. “Maybe you could get him to actually tell us who it is.”

Thor frowns, opening his mouth, before understanding crosses his face. “Loki _knows_ the identity of the man who killed Sif?”

“And a bunch of people back in the 70s, apparently,” Bruce says. “Serial killer. So, he has to be at least-”

Thor walks towards the bars, his sneakers scuffing the door. “Brother, why have you not informed us? Or the police, they would-”

“There is no proof,” Loki cuts him off, the bruises on his face suddenly more prominent, darker around his eyes. “There is- he is untouchable. There is nothing, he did not leave a paper trail, or witnesses, or-”

“Then how did you know?” Steve’s voice is gentle, but steady. Unyielding. The leader, like always, and it makes Loki fall silent. “How’d you know he was going to kill Sif? How did you know _when_ -”

“I did not know it would be Sif,” Loki says through clenched teeth. “I did not- he is insane, the first string of people that he killed- I did not even know about them until I found out about the other… crimes he has commited. I overheard him talking to himself. I- he- he said he would kill you,” he says, his eyes glassy. “Everyone. Everyone that I care for. I could not risk that.”

“Our cousin is _dead_ , brother,” Thor says. “Does that mean nothing to you?”

Loki’s head whips up, the thin film of moisture over his eyes more visible than ever. “That means _everything_ to me, you ignoramus. I did not know it would be her, I thought it would be a stranger-”

“And that is _better_?”

“Yes, it is! I consider the death of a stranger unfortunate, but not as unfortunate as any of yours would be!”

“Brother-”

“Whoa, breathe, guys.” Tony slides a hand in between Thor’s chest and the bars. “This isn’t helping.”

Thor almost glares at him, but instead, he swallows, stepping back. “Agreed. What older man does my brother know?”

Clint pulls a face. “Uh. Fury?”

A collective snicker goes around, including Loki.

“Well,” Clint shrugs. “We _have_ been saying it for years.”

“Top-notch detective work, as usual,” Loki says, tipping his head at Clint. “But no cigar.”

Natasha sighs loudly. “We really need to catch up on CSI. Okay, what ‘other crimes’ has he committed? Is he going to show up on any police records?”

Loki snorts. “The things he has done are more than enough to get him a lifetime in jail, but no, I am afraid not. As I said, he is untouchable. He is- powerful.”

“Sounds like a grade-A fella,” Steve says. “And how did you get caught up in whatever he’s doing?”

Loki casts his gaze down, his tongue between his teeth. “I… needed money.”

There’s a bitter silence where Loki continues to stare at the concrete, and everyone glances at Steve, whose fingers are digging into his arms.

But when he speaks, it’s still even, like Tony knew it would be. “What did you do?”

Loki’s throat clicks. His hands move up to grip at his knees. “I sold… uh, myself. My… body.”

This time, the silence blares. It’s like a fist, wrapped around Tony’s windpipe, because fucking _Christ_ -

“You’re a hooker.” Tony doesn’t realize it was him that had said that before everyone’s eyes are suddenly on him.

Thor steps forwards again, his hand stretching forwards slightly, in between the bars. “You did not need to, brother, you- our parents would gladly give you any money that you asked for-”

“I am not their son,” Loki says quietly, still not looking up. “I will make my own way, to my own college, and I refuse to be under their thumb.”

He breathes out slowly, and the last second of it turns into a huff of laughter. “It wasn’t- it was only three men, before him. Then he- it was only him, after that. He did not like to share.”

Tony closes his eyes, trying to think of something other than the sickening churn of his stomach, than the idea of Loki’s head being pushed down, of his legs being shoved apart, of bruises in other places that no-one sees.

“Brother,” Thor says, and it’s then when Loki finally looks up- his eyes are startlingly bright, reflecting the lights.

Thor swallows, his fingers curling around the bars. “Brother, I swear we will find the monster who has done this. We will avenge all those who have been murdered by him, and whatever unspeakable things that he has done to anyone. We will prove your innocence.”

“You can’t,” Loki says. “I have said, at least twice now, that he is untouchable. He has money, fame, power-”

“Didn’t do it,” Tony says, raising a hand, and is expecting it when everyone glares.

“We can try,” Natasha says. “If you told the police, they could at least look into it. There has to be something that he’s left behind, or-”

“It is… possible,” Loki says. “But until then, you would all be at risk. I do not know what he is capable of.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Thor startles.

“Visiting hours are over, guys,” Wanda calls from the other side. “Time to go home.”

They all turn to Loki again, who smiles tightly. “I will be fine. You have all been here a great deal more than you need to. And unless a few of you are willing to get arrested to spend more time with me, I-”

Clint grins. “We haven’t gotten arrested in a while. Could be fun.”

“Or it could be Juvie,” Steve says, nudging Clint as he passes him. “We’ll visit again tomorrow, okay, Loki?”

Loki raises his hand in a half-salute as they all start for the door, and Tony watches his mouth flicker before saying, “Wait.”

They pause, Peter and Natasha already halfway out the door.

Loki’s jaw is stiff, his throat working. “I- I am not sure, but- I think… your parents, Tony.”

Tony freezes. His tongue feels heavier in his mouth, something cold is creeping up his back-

“What about them?”

Loki scoffs, but his eyes look… pleading, almost. “What do you think?”

Tony stares at him, his heart thudding thickly in his chest. “My parents died in a car crash. I read the files.”

Loki’s smile, again, is bitter. “You should not trust everything you read, Stark.”

“But- the obits, and-”

“Files can be changed.”

“ _What the hell are you_ -”

“Tony,” Steve says, and Tony whips around to him, breathing a little ragged, eyes a little wild.

Steve glances at Loki, then to Tony. “Who told you about your parents?”

Tony says, “Ob-”

It hits him, crumbling down somewhere inside his sternum.

_The 70s, rich, powerful, untouchable, no evidence-_

It thuds around his too-smart brain, through cross-references, past match-ups and it _fits_ , and he’s only half-aware of saying, “No. No, it’s not Obie, come on. It can’t be _Obie_ , he’s-”

He turns to Loki, who is staring pointedly at the floor, his posture stiff, and Tony feels himself start to shake- his hands, his arms, running down his legs until he can barely stand straight.

“Fuck,” he hears Natasha whisper, and someone batting someone on the arm, and Wanda beside Peter, saying, “Do I need to call your paren- Jesus, Tony, are you okay?”

Steve’s hand is on his back, warming his skin through his shirt, and then comes to grip Tony’s shoulder as his knees hit the concrete.

He bends, shoving his head between his knees, covers his face, and Steve’s saying his name, telling him to breathe, telling him it’s going to be okay.

Tony says, “Oh, my god.”

He says it again, into Steve’s neck, and again, and again, and it keeps rolling over and over in his head until Steve’s arms close around him, rocking him slowly, and the words fade into a whisper before dissolving completely.

-

They find a fingerprint.

One fucking fingerprint, on one fucking body, but it’s enough for the police to at least put Obie up to a trail, money or not.

Loki gets released- Tony hacks into Stark Industries and pulls up some footage of Loki doing his homework with Bruce in the tower all through Sif’s murder.

It’s fake, but it’s Tony fucking Stark, and he tweaks it until even he can’t tell unless he gets up close and personal with the code.

Loki’s mother doesn’t ask where he got the sudden influx of money, and Thor discreetly manages to knee Obie in the groin one day while they’re visiting.

Everyone’s theories at school get more and more ludicrous until Tony hears about it all being an elaborate 9/11 hush-up.

So, yeah. Things aren’t great, but no-one’s dying, and Obie is more or likely getting put into an asylum in a few months.

And if Tony wakes up every morning pressed into the crook of Steve’s neck, then, well.

He could definitely get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> ...I DON'T KNOW


End file.
